


Archangels (Mostly) Don't Work at Starbucks

by itallstartedwithdefenestration



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, also a bit of wing!kink, and some coffee, archangel becoming human thing, bits of fluff here and there, coffee shop AU, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:38:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallstartedwithdefenestration/pseuds/itallstartedwithdefenestration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lucifer is an (unfortunately human) barista with an extreme case of mistaken identity, Sam Winchester is a Stanford-registered unsuspecting customer, and no one really knows what went wrong in the Cage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Archangels (Mostly) Don't Work at Starbucks

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a coffee shop AU and kind of a canon AU and mostly just me being very self-indulgent with my Samifer. As always. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy~!
> 
> (Also as of April 17, 2013, I have rewritten the final scene between God and Luce, for reasons.)

Lucifer has been working at Starbucks for precisely two weeks, three days, and fourteen hours when Sam Winchester walks through the front doors. 

He’s not expecting it _at all,_ which makes it a lot worse than it should be—the sight of that long, lean form that should have been his _years_ ago; the scent that drifts in with Sam, like cleanliness and those damn vegetables he’s so fond of and a faint hint of soap and something else, something deeper, something heavy and mortal that Lucifer cannot identify. He feels his mouth go dry—which is such a human reaction, and he curses himself for it—and immediately busies himself with counting money in the cash register. Not as if he can’t face Sam, but because he’s not really eager to have A Conversation with him about this—what he’s doing, why he’s here, working this menial job with such low-life humans surrounding him.

Unfortunately, the cash register is where Sam heads, his laptop case slung over one shoulder, a tired expression in his hazel eyes. “Hi,” he starts. “I’d like—” and then stops mid-sentence, his mouth falling open as he stares at Lucifer. There’s a momentary pause during which they both stand there, staring at each other, and Lucifer is startled at the amount of fear he sees in the back of Sam’s gaze. Startled, because honestly, Sam never had any reason to fear Lucifer. The archangel made damn sure of that.

“Lucifer,” Sam breathes out eventually, backing up a step, his hand going automatically to the back of his jeans. 

“No. Not Lucifer. It’s Nick.” 

He says this automatically, because it’s the name on the front of his apron, and because it’s what everyone here calls him, but he doesn’t realize how Sam’s going to take it until he watches his vessel’s mouth twist into something piteous and ugly; watches his eyes fill with more sympathy than Lucifer is comfortable seeing. “Nick,” Sam says, and he turns back to the counter slowly, his hand falling away from his jeans. “God, is it—you? Really?”

Lying was never something Lucifer did _before;_ it was never necessary, not around the people he needed, but this is different. The scenario has changed, and before he can stop himself, he nods, digging his fingers into the ceramic, watching his knuckles turn white. “Yes,” he says, uncomfortably aware of the weight of Sam’s eyes on him. “It’s um. It’s me again. Lucifer—after he went back to the Cage, my body was restored, and I have spent the past year recuperating.” He makes a gesture behind him, at the chalk-written menu on the wall, and the machines churning out their caramel and cream. “This is where I… work. Now.” 

“Jesus,” Sam says, flattening his palms out on the counter. He shrugs up one shoulder, hoisting his laptop bag a little higher, and adds, “Must’ve been so rough for you, man. I’m sorry.”

Lucifer makes a noncommittal grunt. “‘S all right now,” he mutters, just as his nosy, annoying-as-fuck-all coworker Amanda comes up behind him. She’s carrying a stack of eco-friendly cardboard trays in her arms and sets them down before glancing between Sam and Lucifer, one pierced eyebrow raised slightly. 

“Morning, Nick,” she says. “Is this your boyfriend?” 

Lucifer’s entire neck manages to turn a flaming shade of red before he’s able to get himself under control, and he grits his teeth, damning himself, his condition, all of it. 

If he could, he’d smite everyone in this room right now.

“Not,” he manages after a bit, avoiding Sam’s gaze. “No.”

“Oh.” Amanda shrugs, reaching around Lucifer’s left shoulder to grab herself a slice of carrot cake. “Well, hi, Nick’s not-boyfriend. I’m Amanda.”

“Sam,” he introduces himself, carefully avoiding using his last name, and Lucifer has to smile at that. “I guess I shouldn’t hold you up, Nick.” 

Lucifer shakes his head, because it’s what Nick would do, and he says, “It’s fine, really.” 

Then Sam reaches into his laptop bag and pulls out a piece of paper along with a ten dollar bill. “Can I just get a regular tall latte with whipped cream,” he asks, “and maybe a slice of that pumpkin bread?”

Obediently, Lucifer scrawls the order down and hands it to Amanda, though he’s seething on the inside—two weeks and three days of this and he’s still not anywhere _near_ used to taking _demands_ from humans—and turns back just in time to see Sam sliding the piece of paper, now folded in half, across the counter.

“Call me, if you want,” he says, voice lowered. “I just. I feel like we could talk about this, y’know? What we have in common—it’s pretty unusual.”

Lucifer takes the slip of paper and palms it, testing the cool weight in his hand, smelling graphite and trees. “Yeah,” he says, baring Nick’s teeth in what he hopes is a friendly smile. “Sure, that’d be good.” 

*

It hasn’t always been like this. 

Lucifer was stuck in the Cage for _centuries_ after the battle in the graveyard with Michael—sitting alone in the icy wind, lofty and supreme and fucking bored out of his mind. He never saw Sam Winchester there, not once, and often wondered where his vessel was, why he couldn’t feel his soul, the way he’d been able to on Earth. But then his Grace had been damaged since he’d fallen, and besides Lucifer’s never exactly been the sentimental type, so he put it down to an utter failure of connection and forgot about it as best he could.

And then one day, long after Lucifer had stopped sensing the presence of his brother, long after he’d resigned himself to this eternal damnation of ruling Hell from his confined throne, he’d been pulled out. It had happened abruptly, and Lucifer hadn’t been prepared, and he was still trying to shove a few feathers back in place when he realized he was standing in the presence of his Father. 

“Samael,” his Father said, and Lucifer had flinched at the name—no one had called him that since before his fall.

“Still the sentimental fool, I see,” he’d said. “Trying to call me my boyhood name, as though that will make me think any better of you.”

God frowned, an almost pained expression crossing his face for a moment before he rearranged it into something more neutral. “You will not speak to me in that way.”

“Oh, I’ll talk to you however I please,” Lucifer snapped, shaking his wings now in an effort to get them feeling normal again. “You cast me out, Father—and for what? For _loving_ you? For wanting to be an obedient son?”

“Disobedience,” God had said, and thunder had rolled in the distance, “is an unforgivable crime, Samael. And you know this.” He lifted one hand, and paused a moment before letting it come to rest on Lucifer’s shoulder, inches away from his still-aching wing. “But even your utter _refusal_ to worship the humans above me does not compare to what you have done now.”

Lucifer’s brows creased. “What—”

“The destruction of Earth,” God said, gesturing with his free hand while flexing his fingers over Lucifer’s shoulder, creating a mildly unpleasant tingling sensation throughout the archangel’s body. “The mindless massacre of so many humans—and for what? So you would be able to take your true vessel and rule the broken world left to you? Samael, never have I seen a more senseless plan than this.”

“That wasn’t,” Lucifer started, but his sentence was cut in half as God’s hand slid down, slipping past his shoulder blade to where his wing was attached, burrowed deep within thick cords of muscle and bone. He paused for a fraction of a second before ripping up, and there was a blinding flash of pain, and Lucifer had never, not in the thousand millennia he’d been alive, _ever_ felt this ripped apart, this damaged and torn. He had screamed out, body crumpling in half as Enochian curses fell from his lips, and God had not even paused before taking the other wing, which was flexing and shaking uncontrollably, and tearing it out as well, tossing it to the side as if it were a child’s toy. 

“Father,” Lucifer had gasped out, feeling blood running from his wounds, hot and wet and sticky. “ _Please… stop…_ ” He was only vaguely aware of the fact that he wasn’t healing immediately like he should have been, struggling to shift his body and then falling back, grinding his teeth at the sensation of his bones trying to pop out of his skin. 

Then God stood over him, powerful and cold and righteous, his face utterly devoid of emotion. Lucifer had seen that expression directed at him countless times over the years, whether he actually deserved castigation or not—causing an unhealthy hatred of his Father to fester within him, because what younger brother doesn’t want to see his elder brother rightfully punished when he’s the one who has actually done wrong? 

“Until you are able to truly discern what is morally right from what feels best to you, you will not be allowed to gaze upon my face,” and Lucifer had just enough time to say _but I have not gazed upon your face in three thousand years_ before his Father’s hand closed around his arm, squeezing roughly, and he felt himself falling even as his Grace, damaged and barely flickering, slipped out of his body and into the hands of God. 

“Goodbye, Samael,” God said, and then he and all of Heaven disappeared completely in a blinding flash of light.

Everything after that is sort of a blur in Lucifer’s memory—he remembers coming into awareness several hours after being cast out, flexing the familiar joints of his old vessel and wondering at how _small_ he felt, how diminished it was to be human without angelic capacities. He remembers forcing himself, struggling to walk against the pain, to hail a taxi, and the slightly nauseating ride to the hospital, and the first lie he’d ever told— _they’re from a bar fight; guy had a knife, I only just got away_ —as the doctor stitched him up. He remembers feeling that first strange thrum beneath the blue thread running in his skin, the pulse of blood slipping past his wounds, and finding himself wondering how humans could be satisfied with these bodies, fragile and unstable and bursting at the seams. 

He remembers the job, the one he has now, coming with suspicious ease, and how he managed to find a motel that rented rooms by the night at affordable prices. The first night, he’d beaten on the wall until his knuckles were scraped raw and stinging, screamed at God, cursed his Father’s name, but nothing had happened, and eventually Lucifer had given up trying to communicate and lain down, fully clothed, on one of the beds. He honestly hadn’t expected to fall asleep, but with these new limitations on his body, exhaustion had overtaken him, and when he blinked, suddenly it was morning. 

And it’s been two weeks of this, and he’s still trying to get used to the confines of his human form, the new needs he has to take care of—eating, in particular, is an incredibly strange sensation, and he wonders if all people feel the contraction of their esophagus as the food slides down their throats. When he was simply occupying the vessel, he was separated from it by his Grace, a layer between Nick’s skin and blood and bones and the archangel himself, but now they are one entity. There is just Lucifer, without boundaries, and when it’s hot, or when he slams his finger into a door, or if he passes his hand over a too-rough surface, he _feels,_ an overload of sensation that more often than not leaves him slightly breathless. 

As hard as he’s trying not to, he’s developing certain human characteristics, and he finds himself wondering how much of this he will have to endure before his Father takes pity and raises him back to Heaven—or releases him to Hell. 

*

Lucifer tries not to call Sam. He knows that Nick and Sam never actually met, so there’s no outside obligations there, but. There was that _fear_ in Sam’s expression, when he first saw him in Starbucks, and Lucifer cannot forget that. Because he never gave Sam any reason, whatsoever, to be anything close to afraid of him. In fact, Lucifer went out of his way to be good to Sam—at first, just because he needed him to say ‘yes’, and then later, towards the end, because he genuinely liked his true vessel. He even spared Dean’s life, though he certainly hadn’t wanted to, simply because he couldn’t stand the look of pain on Sam’s face, the throb of it in his chest, when he thought his brother was injured. 

He made sure the last thing Sam saw in the graveyard was Dean’s face; made sure that when he regained control and threw himself and Michael into the Cage, Sam wouldn’t feel it, wouldn’t suffer. And then he never saw Sam again afterwards, so—the fear thing, it makes no sense. 

Lucifer wouldn’t go so far as to say it _bothers_ him, but he can’t shake the image from his mind, and so he finds himself pulling out his cell phone about two days after initially seeing Sam, making the call anyway. His vessel answers with people talking behind him, sounding a little bit breathless, laughing open and easy, and when he says _it’s Nick,_ Sam makes a tiny startled sound, and then a door shuts on his end and the chatter, the music, dims a little. 

“Nick,” he says. “Hey, man, how’s it going?” 

“I apologize if I interrupted anything,” Lucifer murmurs. 

“No, no, you’re good. Just, uh—some friends of mine took control of my dorm room temporarily.”

Lucifer wants to reveal himself, wants to ask why Sam looked so goddamn terrified of him that day, but Nick’s lips are moving without his permission, asking, “Where do you go to college?”

“Stanford,” Sam says, and Lucifer has a flash of memory—sifting through Sam’s mind in Detroit, reading his wants, his needs, feeling that desperate longing to be _normal,_ to have an education outside of high school and a law degree. He can’t say he’s glad Sam’s back at Stanford, because he doesn’t understand the petty trials humans put themselves through for careers that leave them stuffy and sweating behind desks for the rest of their short lives, but he knows how Sam felt three years ago, how that void ached in his chest, screaming to be filled, so he murmurs his congratulations. 

Then Sam asks, his voice lowered, “I guess you know how it is, to need something to help you forget the horrors of what Lucifer did to you?”

The archangel is quiet for a second too long, biting his lower lip, trying to think of how exactly he can ask _when were you ever in the Cage_ without Sam running straight to Starbucks with an angel blade in his hand, and Sam hastily adds, “Sorry for bringing it up so soon, it’s just on my mind a lot—”

“It’s okay,” Lucifer interrupts. “It’s been a year.” _So good at lying now, aren’t you, little fallen soldier?_ “I’m learning how to cope.” 

“Suppose Starbucks is enough to make you grateful you had training with annoying assholes in Hell,” Sam says, after a beat of silence, and Lucifer laughs, surprised and sharp, murmurs, “Yeah,” and shuts his eyes, breathing out, trying to forget that this is Nick his vessel’s talking to; that if Sam knew Lucifer was temporarily mortal, he’d have him killed so fast the archangel wouldn’t have time to blink.

It isn’t until after he’s hung up his phone that Amanda appears, smirking, her voice too loud over the music in her earphones as she says, “Not your boyfriend, huh?”

“Would I could smite you, woman,” Lucifer mutters, too low for Amanda to hear over the screeching guitars, and he shoves past her and into the kitchen. The space where his wings used to be aches continuously, like a phantom limb, and he reaches behind his shoulder and rubs lightly at the air, wincing. 

If he rolls his shoulders hard enough, he can feel the heavy scar tissue moving against the rest of his muscles, like two separate entities. 

*

There’s a record store next to the Starbucks where Lucifer works, and when he goes in one afternoon he’s greeted by the sight of Sam’s back, hunched over the Led Zeppelin collection, arms flexing as he riffles through albums. Black Sabbath’s “Planet Caravan” is playing softly on the overhead stereo, and Lucifer finds himself in a temporary state of remembering—it may just be Nick’s body, now, but a few of his memories are still intact, and Lucifer sees him dancing to this song in a crowded room, smells of sweat and punch spiked with alcohol everywhere, a low female voice in his ear saying _come on, Nicky, let’s go out back where it’s cooler._

“You come in here often?” Sam asks, glancing over his shoulder at Lucifer.

A nod, and Lucifer wonders if the connection between them is still there, if Sam can feel when he’s lying. 

“Must be nice to work at Starbucks with such a cool music shop right next door,” Sam comments, lifting _Led Zeppelin IV_ out of the carton and glancing at the song titles before shaking his head and putting it back. 

“It can be,” Lucifer agrees, trailing his fingers along the edges of the albums in the bin next to him—Kansas’ _Leftoverture,_ Journey’s _Frontier._ It occurs to him that he doesn’t know anything about this music, not really; the last time he was on Earth, it wasn’t exactly his main focus to listen to the radio, but now that he’s trapped within the confines of humanity, the true _importance_ of music to these humans is beginning to show. Amanda always has her earphones in, even when she’s taking orders; on the television in Lucifer’s motel room, people are often depicted running with iPods in advertisements for various medications. 

It’s strange, the significance a few chords seem to hold to these mortals, how easily they’re entranced by a single note played on a piano while simultaneously being capable of war, and destruction, and rape, and a million other things Lucifer hasn’t seen since the days of Sodom and Gomorrah. 

Sam is still shifting the records around, and after a few seconds Lucifer forces himself to ask, “What are you looking for?” 

“Present for my brother, Dean,” Sam says, eyeing _Houses of the Holy._ “It’s his birthday next week.”

Lucifer feels something shift in his chest at the knowledge that Dean is not dead, and he’s not sure if he should be relieved or wary. “I didn’t know you had a brother,” he says, because Nick wouldn’t have, and Sam nods.

“He was… like us, too,” he says, gesturing, and it takes Lucifer a moment to realize Sam is referring to Dean’s status as Michael’s vessel. “Wouldn’t say ‘yes’, though,” he adds, and something like pride flashes across his face, masking the self-directed disgust in his voice. 

Lucifer feels his fingers tightening on the table he’s standing at, and has to remind himself that he’s still portraying Nick; calm, quiet, a little sad. “Do you blame yourself because you said yes?” he prompts, half a Nick-question, half one of his own. Perhaps Sam’s answer to this will lead into a discussion about the terror in his eyes that first day at Starbucks, and then Lucifer can figure out what happened in the Cage to make Sam think he would ever lay a finger on him.

Sam’s shoulders tense up for half a second, and Lucifer thinks he’s going to shut down on him; finds himself trying to reach out to touch Sam with his Grace before he remembers that it’s no longer there. 

“Do you?” Sam breathes out eventually, his voice hard, and he grabs up another Led Zeppelin album and glances at it before tossing it back with a muttered “goddammit” under his breath.

Lucifer doesn’t understand humanity. He doesn’t think he ever will, and he doesn’t intend to stick around long enough to find out, but he knows enough to realize that Sam is angrier at himself right now than at Lucifer—at Nick, really—and he knows that if he doesn’t reach out in some way, he’s going to lose Sam, and losing Sam would be potentially very destructive. The bond between angel and vessel is strong from the moment of conception until the moment the vessel’s soul leaves its body, and without thinking Lucifer reaches into the nearest bin and pulls out an album called _Point of Know Return._

“Does Dean own this one?” he asks, and Sam glances up, studying the cover. After a few seconds, he shakes his head, reaching over to take it from Lucifer’s outstretched fingers. 

“Thanks,” he says absently, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. After a while, he looks back at Lucifer, still standing there, hands in his jacket, unsure whether he should stay or go, and he muses:

“You know, it’s strange—it’s like I know you from somewhere. Even though you and I never actually met—before… it’s like there’s something—” He stops talking, reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry. Tangent.”

“It’s fine,” Lucifer murmurs, trying to will away the heat he can feel crawling up the sides of his neck. “It’s possible that our connection with the archangel has made us bond subconsciously.” He aches to reach out and touch Sam’s forehead, to sift through his memories the way he was once able to, until he finds the source of his vessel’s pain. 

It is Nick’s voice speaking to Sam in this quiet little record store, Nick’s legs walking with Sam to the checkout counter; but it’s Lucifer tilting his head, watching Sam drum his fingers against the wood, watching his hazel eyes flick to the total ringing up and then down to the two twenties in his right hand. He feels impossibly small again, like without his connection to Sam he isn’t _complete,_ and he’s acutely aware of the clock ticking on the far wall as the song overhead changes to something called “Silent Lucidity”. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Sam says in answer to Lucifer’s comment, taking his bag and his change and walking to the door. “See you around, Nick,” he calls, and then he’s gone.

It isn’t until Lucifer hears Sam’s car engine starting up that he realizes how badly he’s shaking, tremors running through his whole body like he’s been electrocuted. 

Overhead, the singer croons, _Your mind tricked you to feel the pain of someone close to you leaving the game of life…_ and Lucifer rolls his shoulders against the phantom ache of his wings and pushes out of the store. 

*

One thing in particular that Lucifer finds tolerable about working at Starbucks is the consistent hum of the machines behind him, churning out their endless miles of cream and caramel and cocoa and caffeine. It’s reassuring in a way, like the low hum of the air conditioner in his motel room, or like the motor running in the city bus he takes when it’s raining too hard to walk. He doesn’t think the customers can hear it, from where they’re standing in impatient lines behind the counter, and he knows Amanda can’t, over her screaming death metal, so it’s something safe. Just for him. A tiny constant that he can hold on to and ground himself with when the pain in his shoulders is too much.

He’s contemplating this, just another sign of his slow descent into humanity, when Sam walks through the doors, wearing flannel and jeans and looking harried. “Give me a Hazelnut Macchiato,” he says, staring more _through_ Lucifer than _at_ him. 

“Tall, venti, or grande?” Amanda sings out, too loud around her music as always.

“Um,” Sam says. “Tall, I guess. No, no, venti—gotta stay up tonight. Study.” He’s talking to his hands now, agitated, and Lucifer tilts his head. 

“Are you all right, Sam?” he asks.

“Could be better,” Sam says, and shifts his laptop case. “I have a fucking—an exam in twelve hours which I’ve put off studying for because I was too busy getting ready for Dean’s party and now I’m royally screwed out of a law degree if I don’t memorize half of _Constitutional Law: Themes for the Constitution’s Third Century_ by tonight.”

“Don’t just stand there, tell us your whole life story,” Amanda says, raising an eyebrow.

“I could help,” Lucifer offers. 

“I wouldn’t want to bother you,” Sam replies, and his jaw looks tense. “Stanford’s a bitch when it comes to workloads, you’d have to quiz me for _hours_.”

Lucifer glances at Amanda, who is rearranging the donuts in their glass case, and then shakes his head at Sam. “You wouldn’t be bothering me,” he says. “I suggested it.” In all honesty he’s more trying to get an actual conversation going between them about Sam’s time in the Cage, but he’s pretty sure Sam wouldn’t mind—he _did_ say that they ‘needed to talk about this’, or something along those lines. 

Sam hesitates, taking the coffee when Amanda holds it out to him, then sighs. “Okay,” he says, and there’s something like relief in the backs of his eyes. “If you’re sure.” He walks over to a booth in the corner of the shop and pulls out his laptop, a textbook, and some blank sheets of paper. There’s a hard determination in his expression, and Lucifer feels a sudden sense of something like pride flare in his chest. He can’t tell if it’s his or if it’s Sam’s—can’t tell if the connection might somehow be opening back up—but either way it’s over just as fast as it started, and then Amanda’s nudging him, saying:

“You are planning on helping your not-boyfriend before the end of this century, right?”

Lucifer shoots her a _look_ before shedding his apron and logging in a break on his timesheet, then walking around the counter to where Sam is seated. He sits across from him, and under the booth their knees brush, a fleeting press of denim and bone and electricity. 

Then Sam shifts his legs and laughs out a swift apology, and Lucifer the archangel wants to lean in and mark his jaw with bruises, sucking on his skin until he’s marked for a week, but Lucifer as Nick just shakes his head, says it’s fine. “What are we starting with?” he asks, curling his hands in front of him and trying to draw on memories he has of being inside Sam’s head, of any law knowledge he may have found there. 

Two hours and forty-five minutes later, Lucifer has to admit he sees why Sam looked so frustrated when he first walked in. They’re no closer to finishing than they were half an hour ago, and Lucifer’s shift was technically over at five but it’s now closer to six-fifteen, and he’s starting to feel the faintest sensation of hunger, that annoying hollow pull at his stomach he still hasn’t gotten used to. He shifts his shoulders, rolling the scars along his muscles, fully aware of how tense he’s been holding his body ever since Sam started looking at _Adversarial Legalism: The American Way of Law,_ which, as far as Lucifer is concerned, is the least interesting book ever published.

Behind the counter, Amanda jingles her keys and clears her throat. “We’re closing up now, boys,” she says. “Don’t stay in here too much longer, Nick, okay? You know where the alarm system is.”

“Got it,” Lucifer says, without taking his eyes off the computer screen. 

Once she’s gone, Sam shoves his book aside and allows his head to fall to the table with a groan. “We’re not going to get this done before midnight, are we?” 

“Probably not,” Lucifer acquiesces, though the instinctive intelligence he’s inherited as an angel knows, logistically, exactly how long it would take them to finish if they continued at the rate they’re going now. “Do you want a break? I could go get some coffee from the kitchen—”

Sam interrupts with a vehement shake of his head. “No,” he says, sounding a little desperate. “Can we get some real food? Take it somewhere we can eat and study at the same time?” He presses his hand against his flat stomach. “I’m so hungry.” 

Lucifer has to duck his head to hide a smile; Sam’s idea of ‘real food’ probably consists of them going to California Pizza Kitchen and ordering salads, or going to Olive Garden and ordering low-calorie pasta. But he’s not exactly a picky eater—he hasn’t been eating long enough to develop his own taste—and anyway, Nick wouldn’t know that, wouldn’t be able to smell the crisp green scent that always hovers around Sam, like he’s just been in a garden for a few hours. So he just shrugs and nods, and a fresh wave of relief falls across Sam’s face as he shuts his book and his laptop and messily shoves all the papers into his bag. 

Then Lucifer sets the alarm system— _code: 244601,_ which he’s always thought was way too simple, but his first day at work, the boss threatened to fire him if he spoke out against regulations again, which is how he discovered that no, he’s no longer capable of smiting with just his thoughts—and he and Sam grab their jackets and head out to Sam’s car. 

They end up going to California Pizza Kitchen, and Sam orders from the takeout menu for both of them— _what do you want, Nick,_ he asks, and Lucifer has no idea what half of the things listed are, so he just murmurs, _whatever you’re having,_ which is how they both end up with lettuce wraps—while Lucifer stands slightly off to the side, eyes darting around the restaurant. He looks at the people in this quiet atmosphere, so different from the technology-laden Starbucks; without the promise of Wi-Fi, they are actually interacting, laughing softly over the clatter of silverware on china plates, and Lucifer feels a sudden, brief ache in his chest for the closeness of his own garrison, back in Heaven, before his fall. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but some of whatever he’s feeling must seep onto his face anyway, because when Sam turns away from the waiter, he immediately frowns, putting a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, brow furrowing. “You okay?” he asks, and Lucifer nods, eyes on the floor now.

“Just.” He pauses, trying to think of how to word this without lying, because falsehoods leave the inside of his mouth tasting bitter and angry, “I miss my family,” and Sam nods. 

“You had a wife, once, right? A child?” 

Lucifer as Nick can only nod, pretend to be absorbed in the television’s latest newscast so he doesn’t have to look at Sam; but Lucifer as himself is more than a little stunned to hear Sam say this. He’s sifting through what’s left of Nick’s memories and no, not once did it ever come out to the Winchesters that Nick was a father, a husband. Which means Sam is remembering this information, however minor it is, from a time _before,_ a time when he was occupied by Lucifer and they shared the same memories, the same thoughts. 

_Perhaps there is hope,_ Lucifer thinks, and smiles to himself. 

When they get their food, smelling of sharp spices and the same clean earth Sam always gives off, they head back out to Sam’s car, and he shoots Lucifer a sheepish half-smile and “Can we go back to your place, instead of mine?” he asks. “It’s crowded as fuck over there, and—”

“No problem,” Lucifer interrupts, waving his hand. He tells Sam where he lives, and they drive to the motel mostly in silence, the lettuce wraps sitting hot and waiting in the backseat while Lucifer shuts his eyes and focuses on the movement of the wheels below his feet, trying to quell the vague nausea that always seems to accompany car rides. By the time they get to the motel, he’s sweating a little, a disgusting, oily human reaction to any form of nervousness, and the cool evening breeze on his face is a welcome change from the filtered stale air that was circulating in Sam’s ventilation system.

Sam grabs his books and laptop from the back of the car, along with their food, and flashes Lucifer a blinding, fast smile on his way to the motel door. Lucifer wipes his palms on his jeans ( _human gesture, he’s growing weak_ ) and walks over to insert his key in the lock, pushing the door open.

Lucifer’s motel room is warm from the heater, but it’s tiny, and he’s never been more acutely aware of this as now, watching his vessel struggle to fold his long, lean frame through the door and under the low-hanging ceiling before he flops onto one of the mattresses with a groan. The laptop case and textbooks fall to the wayside, and Sam unfolds the paper from Lucifer’s lettuce wrap and hands it over before opening his own. For a while, both of them are silent, eating—Lucifer rolling the tastes around in his mouth, the spices, the taste like gardens or the forest or Sam himself—then he says:

“I guess we should get back to studying,” and tries to keep his voice neutral, but he’s never been an apt liar and the reluctance creeps into his sentence, uninvited. 

Whether because of Lucifer’s disinclination or some hesitation of his own, though, Sam sighs, stretching his fingers over his knees, and says, “No, wait, I. I think we should talk about something else first.”

“Sure,” Lucifer says.

Sam hesitates. Then:

“You weren’t in the Cage, were you?” he asks.

“No,” Lucifer lies, running his thumb down the seam of his jeans. “Just Hell.”

Sam nods. “I was only in Hell once… it was years ago, and it was only for three days, but.” He pauses, looking like he’s trying to think of the right way to say something, then “It wasn’t too bad for me,” he says. “Not in Hell.” Another pause, a bite into his lettuce wrap. “I don’t know why.”

Lucifer does, of course: he remembers Sam’s brief stint in Hell, remembers saying, _this one’s already been through enough, no more torture for him,_ and not having to describe what would befall the demon who disobeyed. But he keeps his mouth shut, and after a while Sam continues:

“The Cage, though… that was…” He shudders. “Lucifer would push me against the bars, which were made of barbed wire, and let the demons and Hellhounds in to tear my flesh off one strip at a time. He’d rape me; he’d let fire lick at my clothes and my skin. He used to keep me awake for _months_ —which was hundreds of years in Cage time—and when I was finally allowed to sleep, it’d be for ten, maybe fifteen minutes before he’d wake me up and the cycle would start all over again.

“And then, when I got out, it took a year to get my soul back, and then another year before I was able to start controlling my PTSD.” He runs his fingers through his hair, letting it slide against his scalp before falling back around his face. “You’re lucky you weren’t there.”

“Yes,” Lucifer murmurs, while trying to figure out what ‘PTSD’ means. Post-Trauma Sam Disorder, maybe? Whatever it is, it angers Lucifer that Sam has it. Or had it. And it angers him that Sam thinks—

Lucifer would _never_ do that. Certainly not to his vessel, his Father’s best creation. He’s tempted to curse God’s name right now until he comes down and explains what’s going on exactly, but he doesn’t want to do it in front of Sam, and his wings are aching again. They feel like they’re trying to push through his scars. He rolls his shoulders, trying to get rid of the pain, and winces, gritting his teeth. Instantly the expression of remembrance, of self-hatred and annoyance, leaves Sam’s face, replaced by an almost trained worry that furrows his brows and makes Lucifer shift, looking at the far wall. 

“You okay?” Sam asks, and Lucifer nods, because he _is,_ or he will be, but Sam’s hand comes up anyway to rest between Lucifer’s shoulder blades, and he only hesitates for a second before digging his fingers into Lucifer’s skin, massaging. It’s about half an inch away from the actual scars, but Lucifer doesn’t ask Sam to stop, mostly because he’s not sure if Sam’s fully aware of what he’s doing. They are sitting almost close enough for their legs to be brushing, and the longer Sam rubs his skin, the more Lucifer can feel their bond coming back, crackling in the air between them, lightning-quick and hot like the electricity on a telephone wire. It’s not as powerful as it would be if Lucifer had his Grace, but it’s there, and he finds himself leaning into Sam’s touch without thinking, because he _needs_ this; every angel who has bonded with a human needs it. 

“I feel it,” Sam says suddenly, the pace of his fingers never changing despite the roughened quality to his voice. “I feel that… _thing_ again between us.” His hazel eyes are dark as he looks at Lucifer, and their proximity seems to have shifted again, so that now they’re closer still, so that if Lucifer wanted, he could lean forward and kiss the side of Sam’s neck. 

Then Sam’s hand finds one of Lucifer’s scars, and he frowns a little at the change in skin texture before rubbing the pad of his thumb against the injury. “What’s this?” he asks. 

“War wound,” Lucifer says, which technically isn’t a lie, and braces his shoulders against Sam. The thought comes unbidden to him that Sam is, for all intents and purposes, touching his wings, and the realization of this, combined with the closeness of Sam and the heat he’s giving off and that _smell,_ like the green peppers in their lettuce wraps, has Lucifer hard so fast it’s painful. He’s still not fully used to the human reactions he has sometimes, the way he feels so _much_ and so _powerfully,_ and his lips part of their own accord as Sam pushes into the scar. 

“Sam,” he says, voice tight, “Sam—that’s okay, that’s enough.” 

“Oh,” Sam murmurs. “Sorry.” He slides his hand away from the scar, but doesn’t move it from Lucifer’s back. The bond between them is humming; it’s drawing them in with its nearly unbearable heat and energy. Lucifer runs his tongue over his lower lip, swallowing hard and shifting his legs, trying to ease some of the pressure between them. He looks at Sam, wishing he could see inside him, wishing he could take a look at the broken bits of his damaged soul and try to repair what’s left of it. For the first time in his existence, Lucifer finds himself worrying over the welfare of another being, and he doesn’t really like it. There’s too much _responsibility_ in this, too much at risk. 

They are closer, now, and Lucifer’s nose brushes Sam’s when he moves. “Sam,” he says again, name reverent like a prayer, and he leans in, and Sam follows, and Lucifer falls for the second time. 

*

“So,” says Amanda, with the rag wet and soapy on the counter, “you and Not-Boyfriend fucked yet?”

It’s been two days since Sam and Lucifer’s talk in the motel, two days since the bond resurfaced inexplicably, leaving Lucifer wet-mouthed and flushed and breathless for the first time as Sam, reluctantly, packed his things and said he had to leave _so he could finish studying,_ and walk out he did, the lingering scent of spices good as a promise for more, later. After, Lucifer had tested his wings in the bathroom mirror, looking at his scars shirtless to see if any feathers were reappearing, but all he could see was the raised, reddened skin; lines where the stitches had crossed. 

Since then, he has only seen texts from Sam: _think I passed my exam, Nick, thanks;_ and _Dean liked the album by the way;_ and Lucifer cannot fight the warmth that spreads through his chest when Sam’s name pops up on his phone. 

“No,” Lucifer says now, in response to Amanda’s query. “And please refrain from referring to it in that crass way—and his name is Sam.”

“Whoa, ‘crass’, look at you, spending time with Merriam and Webster,” Amanda teases, pulling one earphone out and turning to halfway face Lucifer as she runs the rag over the glass partition that separates customers from pastries. 

“Who?” Lucifer frowns, tilting his head. 

Amanda raises an eyebrow. “Merriam,” she repeats slowly, “and _Webster_? Y’know? The dictionary?”

It’s one of those moments when Lucifer finds himself feeling desperately claustrophobic, like if he doesn’t fly away _now_ he’s either going to explode or smite everyone within a ten-mile radius. Straining his shoulders back against the regulation shirt and apron, he forces a smile onto Nick’s lips and manages, “Yes. Of course. Joking.”

The nonplussed look doesn’t leave her face as she sprays more Windex on her rag. “Not-Boyfriend—beg your pardon, I mean Sam—would be kind of horrified if he heard that.”

Okay, a hint. Merriam and Webster are obviously intelligent people if Sam associates with them—perhaps partners at a prestigious San Francisco law firm? Professors at Stanford? Lucifer grabs a piece of orange chalk as he ponders this; writes the names of today’s specials on the board, and underlines _have a good day!_ although of course he never means it when he puts it down. 

After a little while, Amanda puts her cleaning supplies away and flicks on the overhead lights. “Please,” she says, heading around the counter to double-check the booths for cleanliness in the half-light of the early morning, “ _please_ tell me you actually know who I’m talking about and that really _was_ just a joke.”

“I don’t lie,” Lucifer snarls, fingers curling white-knuckled against the counter. The surge of anger that rushes through him is surprisingly strong, enough to heat his face, and it takes a moment to realize that he’s not angry at her. 

“O… kay then,” Amanda says slowly, glancing at him as she walks to the front door and flips the switch, changing the outside sign from _Closed_ to _Open._ “Sorry I asked.” She comes back around behind the counter with him, pushing the other earphone back in, and he recognizes the now-familiar hard thrum of Metallica. She doesn’t speak to him again until noon, and he knows she’s upset with him, but he doesn’t care, and he doesn’t apologize. 

The scars don’t start hurting until two in the afternoon, when it’s quieted down some and Lucifer takes his lunch break, heading two doors over to Subway. They recognize him there now, call him _Nick_ and throw his order together before he even has to say it: six-inch Meatball Marinara on Italian bread with Swiss cheese, toasted, lettuce and tomatoes and jalapenos and olives and red wine dressing. (He will never admit that Subway is what he’s going to miss perhaps most of all about being human.) Once his order is done, he sits alone in the back, flattening his shoulders against the booth, trying to ease the pain. He wishes for Sam’s easy fingers; for that heat that lingers in his touch, trailing out of the bond. The wings feel like bone splintering under his skin, like the air around his back is literally searing itself into him. He has no idea if it’s a phantom ache anymore. 

His cell phone buzzes, and it’s Sam, wanting to know if he can stop by the motel after Lucifer’s shift because “there’s something I have to talk to you about,” and Lucifer absolutely does not feel his heart slam its way into his throat as he texts back _that’s fine,_ and hits send, and spends the rest of his break staring at the wall, lips closed over his straw as he methodically drains his cup of Dr. Pepper. 

The rest of the afternoon is strange and hazy, and Lucifer doesn’t want to know why he feels sick, thinking about the way Sam _needs to talk_ with him—he knows enough about humans, that’s never a good sign. He pushes his hand through his hair, rubbing the aching space over his shoulders, ignoring the strange looks the customers give him. By the time his shift is over, he’s all but hunched over, nearly shaking with the pain, and Amanda gives him a weird look as he takes his apron off and clocks out.

“You all right?” she asks.

“Fine,” he says tensely, heading for the front door.

“Did you and Not-Boyfriend have a fight?” 

“Sam,” Lucifer mutters. “And no.”

Amanda looks like she wants to say something else, but she just shrugs, tugging her earphones out and heading for the back so she can lock up. “Have a nice evening, then,” she says. “See you tomorrow.” 

He doesn’t reply, just walks out and heads for the motel. It’s not a far walk, and the late afternoon air feels good on his skin. By the time he arrives, the archangel has almost forgotten about he and Sam’s earlier conversation. 

Until he sees Sam’s car parked outside his door, and sees his vessel’s tall form waiting for him, leaning against the brick with his arms folded. As Lucifer gets closer, the bond begins to sizzle, and he takes slower steps, testing the weight of it. 

Sam looks sad, when Lucifer is able to see him properly, in a way that makes him seem almost vulnerable. His fists are clenched at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from something, and Lucifer has enough time to ask:

“What—” before Sam is crowding him against the doorframe and kissing him, hands huge and everywhere on his jaw, catching Lucifer’s lower lip between his teeth and pushing their hips together, friction sending pleasure spikes through Lucifer’s body. His scars throb. 

“Hello to you too, Sam,” Lucifer murmurs, reaching into his pocket to pull out his key. 

Sam has his hand in Lucifer’s back pocket as he’s opening the door, and they both stumble into the motel room, the air between them surging with energy. Lucifer wonders if Sam can see it, the way he can—blue lightning around their skin where it’s connected, a bright glow in Sam’s eyes, on his throat. “I need,” Sam starts, voice hoarse. “I need to know I’m not going crazy.” His brows are furrowed, and Lucifer reaches up to smooth out the worry lines, wanting to fix, as always, anything that causes his vessel pain.

“You’re not going crazy,” he says.

Sam reaches out, then, and grabs Lucifer’s free hand, pressing it against his chest. Lucifer can feel his heart racing, and squeezes his fingertips in, marveling at the heat under Sam’s shirt, how alive he is. “You feel it?” he breathes. “You feel—” and suddenly Lucifer knows what he’s doing. 

Sam’s soul knows Lucifer. Of course it does, and whoever tortured Sam in the Cage, they damaged his soul badly enough so that it stopped recognizing the true Lucifer and only recognized whatever imposter had taken his place. But now he’s back, he’s healing, and his soul wants its mate. And Sam—

Sam is in pain because his soul cannot find Lucifer’s Grace. 

Lucifer rolls his shoulders, wondering for the first time if that’s partially the cause of his own phantom ache, and he reaches down, grabs Sam’s shaking hand, and lifts it to his own chest. “I know,” he says, exhaling sharply, and when Sam leans in to kiss him this time, crashing their lips together with such force that Lucifer is nearly knocked off balance, he feels the scars pulse, frantic movement below his skin, and Lucifer lets out a sigh into Sam’s mouth, gripping his shoulders as they walk backwards to the bed. 

Sam’s hand moves down from Lucifer’s chest to the hem of his shirt, rolling his fingers into the soft cotton as he kisses him, lips hot and wet against Lucifer’s, then moving down to the hollow of his throat, tracing the pulse beating in Lucifer’s neck with his teeth before tugging the shirt up and over his head. He bites Lucifer’s collarbone, bruising it, and Lucifer shivers, feeling a rush of power—whether it’s his or Sam’s, he’s not sure. 

Heat pools in his groin as Sam plants kisses along his chest, the side of his neck, marking him red and Lucifer wonders if there will be bruises later, tightening his hold on Sam’s thighs, considering whether he should take Sam’s shirt off. He can feel him shuddering beneath his touch, the kisses growing hungry, and Lucifer is reminded that he knows Sam, as well as he knows himself, that he could bring Sam off with exactly the right pressure—that, were he truly still an archangel, he could dominate Sam, he could break him. 

It’s chilling for Lucifer to register that he wouldn’t, not in a million years.

Then Sam’s behind him, easing him against the headboard, his fingers trailing along the hard scar tissue, and with no shirt to separate them the sensations are even stronger. He arches his back against Sam’s touch, moaning softly, and Sam leans in and bites at the skin, and Lucifer thinks he’s going to come right there, with Sam pressed up, chest to his back, teeth scraping along what should be his wing, mouth hot and wet. Sam’s hand is back on Lucifer’s chest, grinding his cock against the line of Lucifer’s denim-clad ass, and he gasps into his ear:

“I need—I need you.” 

Even trapped in Sam’s powerful hold, Lucifer is still able to twist his body enough so that he’s facing him partway, and he slams their mouths together again, hand on Sam’s jaw. “I’m here, Sam,” he says roughly, their lips still connected. “I’ll always be here,” and he doesn’t mean to say that, it just slips out, but it’s true. It’s one of the only truthful things he’s said since he was cast down to Earth, and a rush of heat floods his body, causing him to push harder back against his vessel, lips parted as his scars tug against his skin.

Lucifer doesn’t realize something’s happened until Sam moves back from the space between his thighs, hair a mess around his face, shirt halfway tugged off, eyes darting from one of Lucifer’s shoulders to the other, and _oh shit—_

“Are those _wings_?” Sam asks, voice too loud in the sudden stillness. 

Lucifer glances over. His wings are there, splayed out visible for both of them, dark forms against the pure white mattress, the feathers a little ragged, a little splintered through with bone in places, but still whole. Still intact. His Grace is flowing through him again, too; not strong, but there, comforting, the way it should be. He reaches out to stroke a wing, relief flooding through the space where the scars used to be, and only stops when he notices Sam, and the way he’s staring. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Sam asks angrily, backing off the mattress and reaching into one of his discarded shoes for a knife. 

“Sam—”

“Answer me, goddammit!” The sadness is back in Sam’s eyes, though Lucifer can _feel_ it now, with his Grace finally curling in Sam’s soul, making itself at home. 

“I’m Lucifer,” Lucifer says finally, because there’s no sense in lying anymore, now that he is who he’s supposed to be. “I thought—” _I thought you’d be able to tell._ He gently slips his Grace into Sam’s memories, just over the surface, but the only recollections he finds of himself from during the apocalypse are warped, twisted. There’s a brief flash of Sam in the Cage, getting branded by a hot iron, and Lucifer has just enough time to see a horribly distorted image of Nick’s face sneering at him before Sam plunges the knife into his shoulder. 

“ _Fuck you!_ ” he screams. “Stop fucking looking in my head!” He’s at the door now, the knife still embedded to the hilt, and he’s shaking so badly he can hardly stand. “I’m going to kill you,” he snarls, and Lucifer doesn’t think he’s aware of the tears in his eyes, the hoarseness in his voice.

“Sam,” Lucifer tries. “Sam, that—in the Cage, that wasn’t—”

But Sam’s already slamming the door in Lucifer’s face. 

*

God appears maybe ten minutes later; finds Lucifer in the bathroom, washing the knife, pressing himself against the sink, like he can maybe ground himself better that way. His wings refuse to retract into his body, but it feels okay to stretch them out, now that they _are_ again, and he doesn’t mind. Much. 

“So,” God says. “You’re an archangel again.”

Lucifer focuses inward, on his Grace. “Yes,” he says. 

God doesn’t look especially pleased. “It should not have happened this way, Samael,” he says. “I was to return your angel status to you after you discovered—”

“‘What is morally right from what feels best to me’,” Lucifer quotes. “I know, Father.” He turns the tap water off and shuts his eyes. “Have I disappointed you again, then?”

“It was the strength of your bond with that human that made you this way,” God says, without really answering Lucifer. “I am not happy, but—I am not disappointed. No.” He has a strange expression in his eyes, like he’s battling pride in his son with something else, some innate disgust at Lucifer and at what he is, and then he says:

“You did not go about this as I’d intended. But you have changed, in these weeks you’ve been on Earth. You are free to return to Heaven if you so desire.”

Lucifer raises his eyebrows, mouth falling slightly open, and he says, “Father, I—”

“Samael, I am offering you this as a choice.” God’s fingers twitch against his leg. “If you return to Heaven, you will be accorded a station slightly lower than Michael or Gabriel, but in time you may get back on equal terms with the other archangels. It will probably take several millennia, but I think you’re ready.” He offers Lucifer a half-smile, the friendliest gesture that the archangel has seen from his family since before he was cast out. “Will you accept?”

He swallows. “And I could still see Sam? If I wanted?”

There’s a hesitation in God’s eyes, then, and he purses his lips, eyebrows furrowing. Lucifer bites down on the corner of his lower lip, a human gesture he picked up on that means nervousness, or anxiety, and he shifts his wings, trying to keep them from going tense.

“If you saw Sam again, after you returned to Heaven, he would not recognize you. Your Grace and his soul would bond, of course, but—it wouldn’t be the same. Not the way it is now.” The half-smile comes back, if fleetingly. “Samael, you and that human share a connection that goes beyond the usual for a vessel and an angel, do you not?”

Lucifer thinks about the heat of Sam’s touch at his back, the way their lips fit together so naturally; how Sam’s hips pressed against his, strong and easy and almost possessive. His wings flex of their own accord ( _sense-memory, another human characteristic_ ), a few feathers falling to the ground, and God sighs, nodding and stepping back a pace.

“If you wish to stay on Earth, Samael, just say so.”

Lucifer hesitates, then nods, feeling his back straightening as he stares his Father directly in the eye, and God touches his fingers to Lucifer’s forehead for a moment before bowing his head and vanishing. The bathroom feels smaller, now, and Lucifer takes a deep breath, turning and clutching at the sink with shaking hands.

When he looks in the mirror, he realizes his wings are still there, and he doesn’t know whether to be grateful or not.

*

_Ring._ “Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of Sam Winchester. Leave a message and I’ll call you right back.” 

_Beep._

“Sam. It’s um. It’s Ni—it’s Lucifer. Listen, I just. I wanted you to know that I have done something for you. Something monumental.” Pause, wiping his hands on his jeans out of habit, although he no longer sweats. “Call me back, okay?” 

_Click._

*

_Beep._

“Lucifer again, I just want you to know that I cannot find you, even in your dreams—you’re more powerful than you were, and I admire that. But I need y—I need to speak with you, Sam. Please. Five seconds.” He stares at the crack running along the wall of the motel room; wonders why he’s still here when he could stay anywhere now, when he doesn’t even sleep anymore.

“You call me back, you bastard,” he whispers.

_Click._

*

_Beep._

“Sam,” rubbing at his chest, where his Grace aches continuously now for lack of Sam, “I’m not calling you again. I don’t want to seem like the clingy mother in that show _Bates Motel._ But just. One last thing, and then I’ll leave you alone. 

“I never hurt you. Down in the Cage, that wasn’t me. I never even saw you there, Sam—we were separated, we never spoke, our connection was damaged. I don’t know who it was—perhaps my brother has a sadistic sense of humor—but I’m your—I’m your angel, Sam. I wouldn’t. Not to you. Never.” He breathes out. “If you get this, Sam, just. Just know I would spend my days with you. _I will be here, always, and I will not lie to you_ ,” he says, Enochian spilling unbidden from his lips, and he swallows, shutting his eyes. 

_Click._

*

In the middle of the night, three weeks to the day after Lucifer regained his archangel status, there is a loud knock at his motel door, tearing his attention away from the television screen. He knows who it is before he even gets up, his Grace burning hot at the center of his chest. 

Lucifer opens the door, and Sam comes in, a whirlwind of flannel and jeans and long hair, looking furious and upset and terrified and relieved, all at once, and there’s no pause from when he walks in and when his soul latches onto Lucifer’s Grace, soothing the ache that had spread through Lucifer’s body, even to the tips of his wings. 

“It wasn’t you?” Sam demands harshly, slamming the motel door shut against the moonlight and the cool night air. 

Lucifer shakes his head _no,_ then starts forward. He puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam tenses, but doesn’t move away. “You want,” he starts.

“Yes,” Sam says. His body is moving of its own accord, leaning into Lucifer’s touch. “I—I couldn’t, Lucifer. Couldn’t go without you.” He sounds almost angry, like he’s ashamed, and Lucifer reaches out and presses his palm to Sam’s cheek. 

“I will stay with you, Sam,” he promises. 

“Luce,” Sam says, and that’s all.

“Sam.” Lucifer tilts his head, a question, and Sam smiles wryly, reaching out and running his thumb along Lucifer’s lower lip. 

“‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here’,” he quotes, and Lucifer laughs softly, leaning in and resting their foreheads together. Sam smells of coffee and detergent, of the flannel shirt he wears and the inside of his car, and Lucifer thinks maybe, for the first time in three thousand years, he’s coming home.


End file.
